


Yesterday Is History (Tomorrow May Not Come)

by StarkReactor (1944)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1944/pseuds/StarkReactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve wakes up in the future and it's all changed. The only thing keeping him sane are his memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yesterday Is History (Tomorrow May Not Come)

**Author's Note:**

> So, this wouldn't have been possible without Mici, because she pretty much pulled me on to the ship and kept me there, and made me fall and fall hard. 
> 
> Special thanks to Emma who patiently dealt with my panic.
> 
> This is my first fanfic on ao3, so I really, really hope I don't mess it up somehow. I'm crossing all my fingers.
> 
> Vague spoilers for the Avengers.

Yesterday Is History (Tomorrow May Not Come)

It’s just a file, dog-eared at the edges, someone’s coffee stain adorning the cover, a faded name stamped against the front. Steve’s fingers drag along it in a ceaseless movement, spelling out the words as though he could imprint them right down into his fingerprints. He needs this, an anchor to keep him from drifting in a world he doesn’t understand, he needs the spike of hurt to make him feel _alive_. It’s terrifying, he knows that more than anyone else, but even pain is feeling, even agony is better than being cold. But he can barely bring himself to open it now, not with the hard edge of a SHIELD issue chair sticking into his spine, not with their cameras and a thousand eyes, because this is _his_ , and it’s the only thing he has left, pieces of paper left to languish in the back of an outdated system.

It’s only because of Agent Coulson that he even has it, his cautiously worded request finally received, because for all Phil is a soldier, he’s also a good man, and Steve is more than thankful for that. Anyone else would have denied him the sentiment, the past is just that here, and he belongs to the future. But he had shown up an hour ago, dust on his blazer sleeve, the folder held carefully in his hands. Steve had stammered, had begun to say it wasn’t that precious, that he didn’t need to hold it like it was gold, folded down on the edges and battered as it is, but he’d had a half smile in return, a quiet _to you it is_. It’s the first time in months that he’d had someone _care_ , and Steve had swallowed back something unnamable, taken the file with shaking hands, barely feeling the brief touch to his shoulder before he’d been left alone.

There’s a heavy weight against his chest, something that sits nestled against a chain, against two sheets of metal he’d been so _proud_ to wear. Steve had only ever wanted to make the world a better place, to stand up and be counted, to _help_. And the only way he’d known how was to fight, first as a shadow on an alleyway wall, like a stubborn mule, still kicking even though the grass had faded. The second as a soldier who only knew what was right, who had no direction of how to ever get there. For all that he had wanted to go, war had been an unexpected blow, as if it had fingers that could curl along his windpipe and crush at any moment, fear making him feel like a sick child all over again. His thumb curves around the bottom dip of a _J_ , and all he can remember is a name on a condolence letter and the way his vision had swam, panic jolted in his stomach, taking flight despite how dangerous it could have been.

Bucky had been too light against his side when he’d found him, feet tripping to keep up with this too tall, stretched out version of the boy he’d known, and Steve’s fists had clenched every time his breathing _rasped_ , the world knocked on its head. Bruises had been scattered against skin, mapping out each place he’d been alone, every fight he’d met, and Steve had stared at them after feeling hate for the first time. War had taken what they’d both known and changed it, shadowed Bucky’s eyes where his own had turned determined, and he hadn’t the time to work through it, to help, because they had to keep fighting through the heat, they had to keep going or get burnt up like cheap newspaper.

“I can’t remember falling in love with you,” Bucky had said later, boots angled towards the fire, his voice low and wispy like the smoke drifting up to the night sky. Steve’s fingers had paused, charcoal smudged against the likeness of his neck, and Bucky had whistled low once, turned his face away, “Maybe it was just something that was always there.”

“Maybe you got knocked on the head,” he’d replied, heat flaring in his cheeks, something wild and frightened beginning to flutter in his chest, and Bucky had just laughed, the corner of his mouth turning down in the firelight, leaving Steve with the strange urge to put the flames out.

“Yeah, maybe that too.”

He can feel it now, though, the things he couldn’t name back then, because Bucky had been braver than he ever could be, said it like it was, and all he can remember is the feeling of his fingertips, cool against his wrist, latching in and holding on, because somebody had to, because Steve would keep going until there was nothing left, and Bucky always said he wanted something more to take home beyond a flag and a stack of letters.

His hand lays flat against the thin cardboard, and Steve wants for a moment, not to be this, not to be Captain America anymore, because if he weren’t, he could just fold into the wave in his chest. He wouldn’t be a _figure_ , he could be Steve Rogers again, Steve Rogers who just wants the world to stop turning because he can’t keep up, because he went to sleep and woke up and everything that could have been different was, and the things he wanted to change, hadn’t. Ghosts trail after him no matter where he goes: Peggy with her kind smile, the graceful way of holding herself; Howard with words he didn’t understand, but an easy manner that pulled Steve in and made him feel important; the Howling Commandos, brash and loud and every bit as loyal as a pack of pit bulls. He misses them with a grief he hadn’t felt could be possible, each and every person he left behind grown old and long gone now. But none of that, _none of that_ , can overcome the body in an icy grave, Bucky’s hand held out for an _eternity_ because Steve never bridged that inch of a gap.

“You’re going to marry her.”

Peggy had caught their gaze, smiled and waved, before being whisked away by Howard, the red flare of her skirt like rose petals as she was spun. It had been Bucky who was so _certain_ of it in the beginning, tucked away at the back of a dance hall, his elbow hooked on a shelf, burning cigarette between his fingers, and Steve had half-turned, still caught on how Bucky had watched him sometimes, like _he’d_ been the one flaring up. It had sat awkward in his throat, a complicated, fragile thing, and it was easier to just pretend it didn’t exist, that the hunger in his eyes was not actually there. That it wasn’t mirrored in Steve’s, because he didn’t understand what it meant, couldn’t hope to work it out on his own. So he had stayed quiet each time, fidgety and lost.

“You’re drunk,” Steve had replied, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, happy for once, because they were there, safe, and the whiskey had turned Bucky’s eyes warm again, he had looked like he used to before he left. Steve’s fingers had itched for a pen and some paper, wondering briefly about just sketching into the soft of Bucky’s arm.

“Yeah, but you’re still gonna wed Carter and have a ton of fat babies, jus’ saying.”

“You some kind of mystic now, Buck?” he’d asked, coming to stand beside him, shoulders almost brushing. He smiled, had let the music and the camaraderie wash over him, cleanse him.

“Nah, but you’re gonna be happy with her, kid. Anyone can see that.”

 _You make me happy too_ , he’d thought, on the tip of his tongue just to say it out loud, but Bucky had stumped out his cigarette by then, thrown back the rest of his drink, winked at a pretty blonde girl who’d been eyeing him all night.

“Sorry, buddy, but they’re playing my song.”

Steve had loved him, he knows that now, awake in a world where everything is too fast, too loud, lights drowning out the night sky wherever he goes. His heart knocks heavy against his ribs when he thinks of Bucky’s smile, the way his lips had curled up at the edges whenever he talked, hands tracking a path along whatever they could. Steve had loved him and not known the name to it, listening to his breathing in the next bedroll, cold dread curling in his veins because he couldn’t do anything to chase away the nightmares. He wishes now that he’d known everything, that he’d been braver than he was, because all it would have took would have been a touch, skin under his palm, quiet words like Bucky had always wanted. He could have given them both something to hold on to, and that’s what hurts now, that’s what destroys him, that he didn’t even know to offer.

“Not so fast, boys,” Peggy’s voice had been as warm as the sun, and Steve had stopped, a hand reaching for Bucky’s elbow to cease him mid-rant. It had been a rare afternoon off, he’d been complaining loudly about some guy, Steve can’t even remember now what it was, only that he’d been offended and seized upon it, and that was so Bucky, spoiling for a good fight at any time. But Steve had been smiling then, because his moods were entertaining at least, and Peggy looked beautiful, her blue dress shimmering when she’d moved.

“If you’re going to clobber him over the head with that thing, it won’t work, believe me, I’ve tried.”

Bucky’s voice had been dry, teasing once his vengeful urges had been interrupted, and Peggy had lifted the camera too big for her hands, given him a once over. Steve didn’t miss the way he’d straightened up, shoulders squaring, because that’s just what she’d commanded.

“Sergeant Barnes, what have I told you about damaging the asset?”

“Not to do so, ma’am, but he makes it so damn easy.”

“I’m standing right here, you know,” he’d interrupted, hands behind his back, a blush sitting high on his cheeks at the way she’d smiled at him, the way Bucky had ducked his head, nudged an arm into his side like a naughty schoolboy.

“And very handsome you look too, Captain Rogers,” Peggy had replied, smiling at Bucky when he laughed, “Now can you both please behave for a moment? I am going to take a picture, and I want it to be of two smart, respectable gentlemen, not a couple of hooligans we simply should ship back to Brooklyn.”

“We might need a minute, Agent Carter, that’s about twenty-three years of dirt on Sergeant Barnes.”

“Hey, asshole.”

Peggy had sighed, rolled her eyes at the pair of them, “Gentlemen, please. Do try and pretend for me, would you?”

He’d loved her too, cherished the time he’d get to spend alone with Agent Carter, the records that she’d spin on her player, the knowledge she’d possessed, smiling at him every time he asked a question. She made him feel important, but as a man and not a weapon, and he’d loved her for that. Peggy was everything he’d ever wanted to know and more besides, and Steve had fallen head over heels with no regret. Bucky had been right, he would have married her one day, and they would have been happy. He knows down in his bones that they’d have been okay, all three of them, because loving Bucky was just the same, he was a part of Steve, and he was a part of Bucky, and she’d called them _entwined_ once, sat beside him outside a medic’s tent while they fished a bullet out of Bucky’s thigh, held his hand when he’d started scrubbing at the blood on his sleeve.

Her body had radiated heat against his where their knees brushed, the chairs tucked tight together, Steve’s gaze firmly on his shoes, and the curve of her ankle an inch away from his. He hadn’t spoken since they’d brought him in, just stared at his shoes as she’d spoken.

“He’s going to be all right, Steve,” she’d said, a firmness to her voice to get her message across, and he’d nodded dumbly, watched water drip from him to the floor. Outside the skies had opened, and all he could think about was how strange blood looks when it’s been diluted by the rain, how mud had been against Bucky’s blanched skin.

“Barnes is a fighter,” she continued, “One of our best, and he did say you owed him a drink, so I doubt you’ll get away with it that easily.”

Softer, “You care about him very much, don’t you? I have never seen someone so entwined with another.”

He had stammered then, known his expression was fever bright and far too honest, because he wasn’t ever very good at lying, “I - I know he’ll be fine, I’m sorry, it’s just -”

Peggy’s hand had squeezed his tighter, hadn’t let up. Her voice kept quiet while she watched him with sad, understanding eyes, “Yes, I know.”

“Peggy-”

He’d been frightened, for Bucky, for them both, for all the things he couldn’t quite understand in the world and all the things he didn’t know how to say. Feelings were complicated, and Steve had too many then, for Peggy, for Bucky, for the two people in his life that were important to him. He couldn’t bear to lose either, and panic had seized up his throat, had made him _scared_. But she had just held on, pressed into his side so that only he could hear her.

“You would be unbearable without him, I don’t ever intend to see what that’s like.”

She couldn’t have known, neither of them could, but thinking about it makes him feel unease creep along his neck. There’s a grave somewhere in New York, an empty stretch of land, a tombstone, and he’s glad for the friends he made, for Howard and Peggy, for the people that knew him better than he ever did. He’s not ready to see it yet, he’s barely even ready to open the folder, but to know it’s there somewhere, - that helps enough. His fingers ease open the cardboard, sure and steady, because despite how he feels, he doesn’t shake, tampers down his regret and keeps himself under control. The pages inside are just as yellowed at the edges, old typewriter font spotted in places, and it’s just facts, it’s just numbers listed on a piece of paper, and for a moment Steve can’t see what’s written there. _Killed in Action_. All that energy, all of his exuberance, his likes, his dislikes, his memories and sense of humour, the way he’d wring the sheets in his sleep, eat all the pepperoni on Steve’s slice of pizza, it’s just wiped out. That’s all it comes down to, Bucky’s entire life, folded down and down into three words, the fight, the struggle, every bit of it doesn’t mean anything in the face of this, and Steve has a constant wish in the back of his skull, the plea that’s been repeating itself. He wants to go home, and home is still seventy years ago, home is a gaggle of friends that mean the world to him, home is charm and light, New York streets, dance halls, stiff uniforms. Home is knowing there’s someone there who knows the very core of you.

“Captain Rogers -”

He looks up at the young SHIELD agent standing in the door, but their gaze barely meets his, and he wonders if this is what he is now, part of the furniture, a relic to be occasionally brought out and prodded.

“Director Fury would like to see you on the Bridge, sir.”

She turns immediately, her shoes clicking along the floor, and Steve barely keeps his sigh in check. As much as he’s been taught to obey military command, he wants to refuse, wants to stick his heels in until someone has to make him. But that’s not who he is, and rebelling against the right thing to do has never been his style. He’ll have to ask Agent Coulson to take the records back for him, he can’t keep them, isn’t sure he’d want to. Standing, he moves to tuck the file back under his arm, but something drops, slides face down along the floor and he’s ducking down to reach the small square of paper without even thinking about it. Someone has penciled _1943_ on to the back, and Steve feels his heart stop for a moment, turning it over so that it’s facing upwards.

He’s smiling in the photograph, wide and unabashed, his hands against Bucky’s collar as though he’s straightening him out. Bucky’s laughing, face angled away slightly, arm extended to swat against his bicep, as though about to shove him away. He remembers how Peggy had captured the moment despite what she’d said, had thrust the camera at Bucky to carry for her, informed him that he’d better be a gentleman or she’d demote him, before linking her arms with the both of them. He remembers her laughter at Bucky’s disgruntled, put-upon expression echoing down the hall, how someone had shushed them. Bucky’s voice had been low and his eyes wide, bent to whisper _who’s the hooligan now?_ at them both.

Steve’s thumb brushes against the image, blinking back the wetness in his eyes, a smile on his face for the first time since he’d woken up. It hurts, but it’s the good kind of hurt, blood still rushing through his veins, and his heart thumping in his chest, still beating after all this time. It’s lonely, and terrible, but it’s a reminder that he was loved once, that he was wanted, at least he has _that_. He keeps the photograph, tucked into his breast pocket where it can be kept safe, carries the file with him to return. He has his memories now at least.


End file.
